Beanie’s hair is like an eighth member of the family. (Oh my goodness. We are a family of seven now. I am still getting used to saying that.) This time of year, it embraces the humidity and exhibits more personality than ever. In certain weather, the child looks ready for a Welcome Back Kotter reunion. It is glorious hair, the kind you can’t keep your hands off, the kind no passing stranger can resist commenting about.
Today we were headed home from the pool, depressingly dry. Thunder and lightning had commenced just as the kids kicked off their flip-flops, and the life guard somberly shook her head. We turned to trudge home, the rising wind whipping Beanie’s curls into a frenzy.
Our friend Lisa met us in the parking lot. “Hey, Fuzzhead,” she greeted Beanie affectionately.
Beanie (who seldom glowers) glowered. “I don’t like being called Fuzzhead,” she said quietly.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” said Lisa. “What do you like to be called?”
Beanie pondered. Her eyes brightened and she nodded with satisfaction.
Well, of course. Monkey is ever so much more dignified than Fuzzhead.
I Heard You Just Fine
Enter the Thicklebit
I’m No Jean Grey
Best. Present. Ever.